Category Archives: Love

Untitled *Biopic Poem (Draft)

Video tape is
black under music,
shut out from playing fields,
working behind its plastic window.

Soil segmentations are
aerated by earthworms,
next to pinned
flags of the world.

A cut of Schindler’s List for schools,
shook us behind our desks
in a room with
pencil crayon atlases.

I caught your biopic
by luck, in the cast net of stars,
flicking through satellites, stations,
happy enough without pause
to be embarrassed for them now,

because what a hold our new self-images had,
not yours I noticed, the beyond-wise (or a bit mad)
escaped their young shadows.

The lesson differently pieced together by everyone,
who is ever going to learn the role that
fumbled then crushed dialogue
once played in sweetly stupid
love.

At a paranoid pitch, too,
making molecular
wildness inside
tone-blind to what feelings
seemed to scream.

I passed through an obsolete sleep
into days that test me more,
sure that you were a movie star –

what significance might be best asked of
the miscast stars I dreamt for us,
their celebrity easier
wound back for memory
than innocent as wax torches
held to faces we don’t have.

But I forget the horror of each
awkward hallway
shivering in bones,
bodies jostling for steps on stairs,
and names called to be heard.

I’ve yet to label my working title
in a smudged, thick,
left-handed daub

and almost yours,
wise and tall,
joined up and circled Disney dots to i’s of yours,
remembered only just but like
ice cream in a cone,
clever and kind,
and you would put up with
this nonsense – and more

bursting through in spits

and I remember a bit about
my better double in History.

Dream-Confused Polar Bear In A University City (Second Draft)

This is what’s good about the rain.

Cars casting waves behind them
sell streets to me;
wheels drink in the wide showroom
with their
grooves, ribs and dimples.

Trees sit,
passing each river to the ground,
parting curtains,
into straight unbroken lines,
the shot glasses of a million great nights
measuring the
annual precipitation
above your shampooed and sodden hair.

Welcomed with that glassy, clean scent.

What’s good about the snow
is every shape made simple,
the cars blinded,
with hoods
of light ice,
heavy in landing together,
piled around a wide bend,
disappearing.

The weather
blocks sight,
to be with you,
and remember.

She found me,
it was time to,
but in a broken land of ice.

Each shape marks a bonus colour
triggering a memory and quickdraw smile
to the hearts which escape from instruments played
in an extreme weather
of happiness,
if you like.

And eyes can reach wider, and vine-like with curiosity;
eyes can be be insatiable, like climbing plants, but free.

In the room that spoke,
the polar bear
kept splashes of joyful paint
tufted in fur,
the emulsion for a canvas afterwards.

Waking up well is rare –
speak to an endangered bird.
It is good to wake up, in general,
with loud squawks trilling,
sun obscured by noise;

so feather a nest with
your own love,
and a Pandemonium
of family.

When it is the end
you will have to show
the stories that passed by the ear
of the smallest seashell that we sold,
the one too strange
for strangers,
the one that was priceless
at the discount of my
low-tide,
the actions that were spontaneous,

and all that remains,
is to say only something
of the truth that lived and went.

The sun rose over her house,
melting glass.

And this is what I learnt from her,
the ice-capped,
cold-toed
polar bear.

The polar bear is white
because she likes the snow,
because she likes to reflect
the aurora’s
many dreams.

But I saw her, lost,
like myself
and all out of the seas
we were asked to swim.

And I was happy floating
past the ocean
where a polar bear,
– where ice grew
at her feet –
walks the horizon,
looking for,
equally confused,
and diminished schools
of fish.

Because that’s what we’re given,
and that’s what we’re stuck with.

I want to be weird and in love
and go with you into the old city,
with our favoured strangeness
beset by the better spirits,
like candle flames
sheltered by cool stone,
our wise, satirical sense of
the truthful world and its lies,
leaving any anxieties and paranoias behind
spitting over their own skeletons
in attempts to cool,
arriving predictably in
the uncertain skins they shake in.

In boats
as we board others,
aflame and in the opposite direction,
vomit for old time’s sake,
under bridges
and pass through arches
of a fast food restaurant
in a historic city.

René Magritte’s 110th Birthday

beheld the apple
of god,

all that blue
in a bowler of fruit.

René Magritte must lean
against a lamppost,

must stand/sit
on a parkbench

day, afternoon, night –

to watch the trainride
from the fireplace.

René asks if his pipe
is a non-smoker.

I talk to a man who starts
to name me several clouds.

Continue reading René Magritte’s 110th Birthday

Epilogue of the Rabbit’s Tongue

london_busqPicture: Miroslav Sasek

Some things warrant ignoring. Please be aware that what follows may be one such thing. In this long, rambling and tedious post, we concern ourselves with an event that never happened, like the moon landings, or the assisination of the Loch Ness Monster. However, it was my great pleasure to take this opporunity to thank some of the many people who have helped make Peter and The Hare who they are, the blog they are, when they are, if they are.

Thanks for listening.

P.S. Is your computer Y2K compliant?

Continue reading Epilogue of the Rabbit’s Tongue

Miniature Tree of Envelopes

ah, i wish my saplings good luck –

my little tree of letters
next to my piss-pot
when it rains,

so it is fifty percent myself,
and the rest is
weather-water

when an insect licks the back
of The Queen’s head,
on a stamp.

Tell my true love,
“I love you”;
a reader,
who unfolds the leaves
with less than
half a thumb.

The Man of Science

Who Knows?

“These things are quite improbable, to be sure; but are they impossible?

Our big world rolls over as smoothly as it did centuries ago, without a squeak to show it needs oiling after all these years of revolution. But times change because men change, and because civilization, like John Brown’s soul, goes ever marching on.

The impossibilities of yesterday become the accepted facts of to-day.

Here is a fairy tale founded upon the wonders of electricity and written for children of this generation. Yet when my readers shall have become men and women my story may not seem to their children like a fairy tale at all.

Perhaps one, perhaps two—perhaps several of the Demon’s devices will be, by that time, in popular use.

Who knows?”

L. Frank Baum, The Master Key: An Electrical Fairy Tale Founded Upon The Mysteries Of Electricity And The Optimism Of Its Devotees.

THE MAN OF SCIENCE -AN ILLUSTRATED NOVEL OF SCIENCE AND DISCOVERY FOR SCHOOLCHILDREN

KNOWN TO INCREASE MENTAL APTITUDE, AND WELL REGARDED BY THE COUNTY’S SCHOOLMASTER’S FOR THE IMPROVING PROPERTIES OF THE TALE

THE TEXT.

THIS TEXT IS TO BE FOLLOWED WITH REFERENCE TO THE ILLUSTRATIONS PROVIDED OVERLEAF. CHILDREN MAY ASK FOR ASSISTANCE WITH TURNING THE PAGE IF REQUIRED. APPROXIMATELY ONE HOUR’S CLASSROOM TIME, OR THREE HOURS TIME AT HOME, SHOULD BE DEVOTED TO THE READING AND UNDERSTANDING OF THIS TEXT.

1 & 2. Theodore followed that most solitary of professions. Being a man of science, he became so lonely that even the most foul-smelling lighthouse keeper, or beggar-boy, might take pity on him. One day, while examining a light bulb, and occasionally ejaculating a loud cry of “aah” or a small sigh of “oh” – and looking into the small cage which housed the crippled bird with severed wings (not pictured) that told him certain secrets of the sort that it is only God’s place to understand –

3. So lonely was he, that it became his fancy to to don masks, and adopt such mannerisms that he might play-act in the role of his own, “imaginary” friends. This was stormingly good fun, and he enjoyed it very much. However, it was wrong.

NOTE: THE TEACHER MAY CHOOSE TO REINFORCE THIS, THE MORAL OF THE STORY, BY SWIFTLY STRIKING EACH OF HIS PUPILS.

4. The consequences of this act of sin – for it can be called nothing less – is that henceforth, for all his days, the Man of Science believed that he was his own friends. He used this machine, of his own foul invention, to say “hello” to them.

And, doing so, he placed his hand elsewhere, turned the nob which was tuned into his own demonic frequency, pressed the button (which delivered “more” electricity) and moved the stick-like device to the other position which was the opposite to the position it had previously occupied, thereby delivering more fuel to his devilish scheme.

5. The professor pitied himself greatly, and collapsed out of shame. And got back up again.

6. He thought of his late colleague’s slender yet masculine hand, touching his instruments with abandon.

7, 8 & 9. The bat’s were in the belfry, the illusionist looked on through a distorted magic window, and the cat, being a Catholic, was the only picture granted the privilege of full-colour reproduction.

EXERCISE B – SING A SONG IN DEDICATION TO “THE POPE OF CATS”.

“MEOW”.

10. The Man of Science, already light-headed from collapsing in shame and striking his head upon a giant wooden “Electric Field Emitter”, collapsed once more, and remembered his old study, decorated so beautifully as would make any man’s eye’s water!

And then, at once, his mind turned to the memory of his late colleague, and the way he would sit across his desk. “Good for circulation” he would say, cheerfully.